"I know your orders, General. I commend you for trying to execute them. But I think it's time you passed this task on. The Western Army is headed home. The wives of the men of the Imperial Brigade await them just beyond Covingont."
"Vermin infest the Raftery."
"Is that your opinion, or just the Mindak's?"
Tracka's face became as lifeless as that of a corpse.
"Mine, Swordbearer. The place must be scourged and scoured."
"I'll go along with that. The point I want to make is, your people don't have to do it. I'll handle it. I owe the Mindak that much."
Tracka shrugged. "I haven't been relieved of my obligation."
Gathrid felt Ahlert fuming inside him. "Damn all stubborn men!" he growled. "Can't you compromise?
To save the lives of good soldiers?"
The intransigent general stared at Gathrid for more than a minute. His gaze moved over the youth's swords, neatly avoided the trap of the Ordrope Diadem. "Perhaps," he said at last. "If you can convince me that the traitors will be destroyed."
"Tell me about their defenses."
Tracka peered again. His right cheek twitched nervously. He scratched at it, shrugged. "The usual.
And the Toal. We've handled them with massed ballistae fire. They keep finding new flesh, though."
"You gain with every Brother slain."
"Exactly. They have to run out of bodies sometime."
"What about Nieroda?"
"She's most evidenced by her absence. She hasn't involved herself in the fighting."
"Why would she be so determined to hold the Raf-tery?"
Tracka shrugged.
"The same reason the Mindak wanted it?"
"His Lordship didn't confide in me."
Gathrid leaned toward the general, whispered, "I think we'll become allies again. I'll join your next assault. Will you go afterward, win or lose?"
Tracka did his peering. He had flat, narrow eyes. He was intimidating. Gathrid wondered if there were something wrong with his eyesight. "If your effort satisfies me."
Gathrid returned to Bleibel, who immediately protested the arrangement. Gathrid ordered him to clear the streets for the Brigade's evacuation. "We won't spill any more blood if we don't have to, Colonel. While you're at it, assemble some boats in case they have to go off that way."
"Sir. ..."
"I'll get them off the hill," Gathrid promised. "But without us paying for it in blood." He allowed his hand to drift suggestively near Daubendiek.
Bleibel accepted the orders.
Gathrid returned to Tracka. "How soon can we begin? Some of my officers have a taste for blood.
I've put them to work. I'd like to finish before they get back."
Tracka smiled. "I'll start it now. You'll have Toal to face in a minute."
Gathrid glanced at Rogala. The dwarf had fallen into one of his dark, brooding moods. He could not stop thinking about Ahlert having called out to Aarant. The possibility that Gathrid had shared his predecessor's soul had shaken him deeply.
Tracka did not exaggerate his timetable. By the time Gathrid had climbed to the Winged Victories four Toal were leading a counterattack. Small witcheries had set the slopes of Galen aglow.
Another two Toal had taken station halfway up the Hundred Steps. No Ventimiglian would battle past them.
"You'll have to guard me for a while after I make each kill," Gathrid told Tracka. "I'll be making real kills, not just separating them from the flesh. I have to leave my body to manage it."
The Thaumaturge-General nodded.
The first two Toal were easy. They were not expecting the fate he brought them. The next two fought more desperately, with more cunning. They consumed more of his strength. They were vicious.
They did not mind having their bodies killed, but wanted no part of being done for themselves.
Six more, Gathrid thought when he finished the fourth.
His knees were wobbly. He leaned against the plinth of a Victory. That last one had been tough. He glanced round. The Brothers were losing ground fast now that they had no Toal to give them backbone.
He pushed off the column, allowed Daubendiek free rein amongst the Raftery's mortal defenders. He and the Sword devoured their energies. That no'longer seemed such a wicked thing to do.
Reds and Mulenex street bullies, the defenders began scurrying amongst the Victories and Pillars in vain flight. A mob surged up the Hundred Steps, only to be turned back by unsympathetic Toal.
Daubendiek feasted till they scattered.
Gathrid went for the Toal. The first was almost too easy.
The second proved to be a master bladesman. He was a genius both at surviving and delaying.
Gathrid began to wonder why the thing insisted on holding its ground. It had no long-term hope.
He saw why soon enough.
On the narrow veranda surrounding the Raftery the remaining Toal were assembling ballistae and training them down the Hundred Steps. One salvo would end the threat of the Swordbearer. He might deflect a shaft or two, but not an entire flight.
He retreated a dozen steps, sheathed his weapons, vaulted from the Steps to the steep, rocky slope of Galen. He felt neither trepidation nor lack of self-confidence as he scrambled across and up the hillside. The knowledge and skills of mountaineers came to his mind and muscles freely. He reached the veranda before the Toal could realign their weapons.
He had, he thought, achieved his potential as Sword-bearer. This was the state to which every would-be possessor of the blade aspired.
Two more Toal perished before his ferocity.
He staggered to a wall. The last had taken him to his limit. His heart was determined and his will demanding, but his flesh could be pushed no farther.
And three Toal remained. One held the Steps. One blocked the Raftery door. The third was among the ballistae, the strings of which Gathrid had slashed. It was closing in on him, sensing his weakness. Its sword swayed like a cobra about to strike.
Tracka engaged the Toal on the Steps. He used a blade plundered from one of the thing's comrades.
Rogala scampered back and forth behind the general, looking for a chance to plant his knife. Down among the Pillars and Victories Ventimiglian artillerymen were setting up engines with which to support the assault. The last defenders there had surrendered.
Gathrid knew the artillery would not save him. It could not be brought to bear in time.
He tottered away from the Toal, scattering mortals, slaying several. Each gave him a bit more strength.
He stalked them in moments when he was not beating back some thrust by the Toal.
His bad leg began to bother him. His conscience called him vampire.
He went on, ignoring that pitiful little voice. They were just cattle. He would use or slay them as he saw fit. ...
With the fulfillment of the Swordbearer's potential came Nieroda-thinking, Suchara-Chuchain- Bachesta-Ulalia thinking. He did not realize he was becoming more and more like the things he hated.
It was ever thus. The more mighty, evil and implacable the foe, the more like him one had to become to overturn him. Then, lo! There was a new power risen, scarcely distinguishable from that which had fallen.
So it went. The Lords of Darkness are crafty.
There were not enough Reds to give Gathrid the strength he needed to face several Toal. And the Toal guarding the Raftery entrance was spiriting the few available inside.
Gathrid glanced down the Steps. Tracka continued his duel. The Toal appeared on his way to victory. The general did not possess the tireless energy of a Dead Captain.
He caught Rogala's attention, beckoned him.
Now, he thought, we'll find out where Suchara stands.
She was not yet ready to write him off. But she was tempted. Nearly a minute passed before Rogala plunged off the stairs. He scrambled up the slopes like some hairy rock ape.
Gathrid's antagonist pushed him hard, driving him to an edge of the veranda overhanging a precipice.
Rogala charged the Toal from behind. He hit as the Toal spun to face him.